


Assorted Shorts

by yarroway



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humor, Injury, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Humor, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:57:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3905515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarroway/pseuds/yarroway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of several short pieces, including silliness, angst, and a bit of humorous smut.  Each piece is rated in its chapter heading. Please heed ratings!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. S'mores Fic (rated G)

When Wilson came into work on Monday he was wearing a dusty, beaten up old fez and had a giant plush hairy spider dangling from his lapel by a long elastic string. It jiggled and bounced as he walked. There was a small beanie baby chipmunk stuffed into his belt. There was a wrist brace on his left wrist. He wore a pair of old sneakers on which someone had inked brightly blooming flowers. People stared. By the time Cuddy click-clacked her way across the lobby to confront him, his face was beet red.

"House?" she asked.

Wilson grimaced. "I took him to the state fair Saturday. They have these booths with games. You throw bean bags at targets and win things. I--they had this huge fluffy teddy bear. I thought it would go great in the pediatric oncology playroom. You know, new toys are always the most fun for the kids. So--"

"You made a bet with him, didn't you?"

"It was a sure thing!"

She shook her head. "Why do you do this to yourself?" She narrowed her eyes and peered at him. "What happened to your wrist?"

Wilson's face turned a brighter shade of crimson. "I--may have strained it throwing the darts. The game did take a long time."

She grinned. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but ...what's going on with the shirt?" Standing this close, she'd have to have been blind not to notice that it was too large and, even disguised under Wilson's jacket, hung strangely.

Wilson leaned towards her and said quietly, "Padded bra."

At her expression Wilson added, "Yeah. If anyone wants me I'll just be in the morgue. All day."

Her laughter followed him down the stairs. Once he was alone, uncomfortably ensconced in the always chilly morgue and using an autopsy table for a desk, he allowed himself to smile. The last laugh would be his.

They hadn't seen House yet.

************************************************************************************************************************************************

Take a look at Brynna Morgan's amazing illo, here (click to see the full version): http://brynnamorgan.livejournal.com/61793.html


	2. The Great Maple Experiment (M/M, Mature)

“Clinic hours.”

“Mmphf. What?”

“Clinic hours! Clinic hours!”

Immediately the blindfold was whipped off his head by sticky fingers. House shuddered internally, and not in a good way. He could practically feel the fingerprints drying on his face.

“Really?” Without waiting for an answer Wilson undid the cuffs and tossed them aside. He put an arm beneath House and helped him sit up. “All the things we've done, and you safeword over _syrup_?”

“It’s sticky.” House grimaced, trying to not touch anything as he headed for the shower. “Whose stupid idea was this anyway?”

“Yours.”

House turned the faucets on. “I can’t hear you!”

“Can you hear me now?” Wilson asked as he pulled back the shower curtain and stepped inside. He didn't say anything more, but he didn't need to. His fingers did the talking.


	3. Pussyfoot (rated G)

Wilson knocked.

“Use your key!” House called.

Wilson entered and gaped in astonishment at the sheer destruction he saw. Had his ward done this?

When the doorbell rang she had been sitting primly on the living room floor surrounded by shredded photo albums, the fluffy insides of couch cushions, and almost the entire contents of a bottle of bourbon that House had unwisely left open on the coffee table the night before. Now, seeing Wilson, she stalked angrily over to him, crouched down, and peed on his foot.

“Hey!” he yelled, jumping back away from her. His wet foot slid helplessly along on the glossy pages of a Playboy. Wilson fell, his ankle twisting beneath him. “Ow!”

Sarah coiled herself around the newly scarred legs of the coffee table and wound her way into the depths of House’s apartment, her tail held high.

“House?” Wilson called, getting gingerly to his feet. “What did you do to my cat?”

House emerged from the bathroom. His arms were scratched and three of his fingers were bandaged.

“Sarah did that?” Wilson asked in disbelief, though the warm stink seeping through his leather shoes and between his toes answered that question. “ _Sarah_?”

“I told you,” House said grimly. “When you won that stupid bet I told you that I’m not a cat person. You rigged it anyway, and-- why are you standing like that?”

“I slipped,” Wilson nodded at the magazine. “Twisted my ankle.”

House shook his head, abandoning the argument. “Let’s get out of here before she kills us both.”

Wilson wasn’t about to argue, but when they got into House’s car he ventured a tentative, “I’d like to stop by my place first to change my socks.”

House gave him an odd look but obligingly made the next left.

“Hey Wilson,” House asked a few minutes later. “What’s that smell?”


	4. Scene From Afar (rated T, and set in the aftermath of Moving On)

Josh Rubenstein, interim Head of Oncology, sat by James Wilson's bedside in ICU watching the rise and fall of his chest and listening to the rhythmic hiss of the respirator. James had been an exemplary boss and department head. He'd also been Josh's squash buddy for the last five years. As much as he wanted a promotion, Josh had never wanted it to come like this.

"Hey," Chase said, walking in. Foreman followed him through the curtain and closed it behind them. "How's he doing?"

"His heart stopped late last night, but they got him back. He's holding on for now, but his heartbeat is still irregular." Josh stiffened as Foreman made a move towards the bed. "You aren't his doctor."

Foreman gave Josh a haughty look and moved for the bed again. It was these people's boss who had put James where he was, and Josh wasn't going to allow them to finish the job. "I mean it," he warned, fingering the panic button in his pocket. "You aren’t James' doctor. Leave him alone."

"Hey, take it easy," Chase soothed. "We just want to take a look at him."

Josh noticed the bulge of a large syringe in Chase's pocket--a sedative, perhaps, in case he tried to stop them. Josh pressed the electronic 'button,' which sent a signal to the security department that he needed help immediately. He hoped they'd get here quickly. He needed to stall them until then. So, grudgingly, he told them what they wanted to know. "Dr. Wilson dove to the concrete to avoid being run over by your drugged out boss, fell badly, and fractured his skull. Bone fragments pierced his brain and caused it to hemorrhage. He lay in the debris and dirt for so long that he's developed a brain infection too. Only time will tell how bad the neurological damage is, and that's if his heart stops giving out. There's nothing you can do for him. Now please leave. Or," Josh addressed Foreman, "did you really think I didn't see that IV bag you're trying to hide?"

Chase and Foreman exchanged a long look. As one they lunged, Foreman for the bed and Chase for Josh. At that moment, PPTH security burst in. They wrestled the bag labeled _EXPERIMENTAL not for human use_ from Foreman's hand, and the syringe from Chase's. The two doctors were hustled out.

Josh rubbed his face, trying not to hyperventilate. He still had another hour to go before Brown arrived for her turn on guard. After her, Liu had volunteered to do a stint, and after that came Vasquez, Jennings, Zebrowski and Maxwell. Oncology was going to do all they could for James, and that included keeping him safe from reckless doctors. Josh had heard all the hospital stories about the diagnostics department and knew better than to let his guard down. The oncology folks had warned James for years to distance himself from them, but James had sworn that House's staff were well-meaning, dedicated doctors and that House himself was his friend.

Well, that friend had damn near run James over and left him lying unconscious in the rubble. Cuddy hadn't known Wilson was there so no one had searched for him. It had been mere chance that a firefighter had looked closely at a pile of filthy debris and seen the man beneath. House's team might meant well, Josh supposed, by giving him experimental drugs fit only for laboratory rats, but good intentions wouldn't keep them from hurting James.

That was what friends were for.

********

Thirteen speaks loudly into her phone, competing with the hiss of static and surge of the surf and steel drums on the other end. "It didn't work. They've both been arrested." She waits a long time for a response, but none comes.

Eventually she hangs up.


	5. Doing Time (set early in season 8, rated T, contains implied violence)

…and wakes. Trembling fingers and racing heart. Parched throat. Awake. Alone, yes, at home. Drink a glass of water, then back to bed. Comfortable, soft, safe. Private.

Listen to the night. No soft Wilson breaths. Rumble of traffic. Television playing. City sounds. Simple sounds. No heavy guard tread, no yells, no taunts. Nor the quiet of predators, silent and hidden.

Breath quickens. No, here is good. Alone is safe. His apartment, door locked. No lurker waits to smash, grab, use, take. No hands to hold him down. No hands.

Tired in the peace and the aloneness, he tumbles into sleep…


	6. Ostiumtractophobia (rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A House & Wilson dialogue-only fic written for a prompt.

"Amathophobia."

"In a hospital? They do dust here."

"Bacillophobia. Frigiphobia."

"Are you going alphabetically?"

"Haphephobia. Koinophobia. Metallophobia. Nosocomephobia"

"Oh, God. You are going alphabetically."

"Ostiumtractophobia. Spectrophobia."

"It's a doorknob, not a mirror."

"It shows a reflection, and it's curved which means the reflection is distorted. Can't stand seeing that flawless exterior gnarled and perverted?"

"I don't examine the doorknobs, House. I just turn them. I'm not phobic of mirrors, my reflection, germs, dirt, disease, bacteria, slime, doorknobs, hospitals or my workplace."

"Huh. Oikiphobia."

"This isn't my home, and it's not a phobia. Did you really not notice that I use cotton gloves to press for the elevator and open my file drawers as well as opening doors?"

"This is more serious than I thought."

"I'm allergic to the new spray stuff Maintenance uses. I got contact dermatitis from it. There is no phobia. Just a mild skin reaction, which will fade when they get a shipment of the old stuff in."

"So it's Phobophobia then. Don't worry, the EAP program docs can fix you right up. I'll make you an appointment."

"House!"


	7. Summer Haze (rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This challenge fic had to include a set of random items.

Wilson sat in his office, looking out the window. The sky was grey, the air close. It felt like it was going to rain, but he knew rain wouldn't come. It was just another humid, sticky day under overcast skies.

He was in for a summer of them.

On the desk behind him a cup of coffee grew tepid beside a stack of charts. A bottle of nail polish remover stood beside the phone, left out from the last time House had superglued Wilson's phone together.

When Wilson was sure he wouldn't blotch the charts, he swiveled the chair around, and picked up a pen. He loosened his tie and ran a finger over his collar, wishing the windows would open up and let some fresh air into this stuffy room, but it didn’t matter. 

The air outside was just as suffocating.


	8. The Nightmare Scenario (rated T, and set in right after Moving On)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "wakes up missing a kidney."

Wilson started to turn over but it hurt and then he woke all the way up. He was lying in a hospital bed at PPTH, muzzy-headed and hurting. House sat beside him.

Wilson went dizzy with relief. He'd been so worried. "House? Where have you been?"

House looked startled. He folded up his reading glasses. "Right here."

"I--appreciate you being here," Wilson's voice caught a little. After House had walked away from the wreckage Wilson had thought he was finally, irreversibly alone. "I really do. But the police are looking for you. It won't take them long to look here."

House got up and shone his penlight into Wilson's eyes. Wilson tried to wave him off, but House wasn't groggy from anesthesia. House ran him through a quick mental status exam.

"Okay," House said, moving Wilson's legs to sit beside him on the bed. "Why are the police looking for me?"

"You--crashed your car into Cuddy's house. You could have killed five people, including her daughter. You broke my wrist. You don't remember that? You...you'd been guzzling Vicodin. If you were in an altered state of consciousness that could keep you out of jail! This is great. You still need rehab, but this is good news."

"Interesting. You say I broke your wrist. Which one?"

Wilson looked down at his hands. There was no cast, no brace, no pain. His eyes flew to House.

"You went hunting with that jerk Tucker this morning. He had a seizure and shot you in the back. He's now an oncology patient again. Your kidney suffered major trauma. You had emergency surgery to remove it, and a very interesting dream."

"A dream? You mean you didn't take out Cuddy's house?"

House shook his head.

"You didn't shoot a hooker with an arrow and jump off a fifth floor balcony into a pool?"

"I seem to have had a lot of fun in your dream, but no."

So it had really been a dream? Everything since Tucker? Wilson thought back over everything he remembered, everything that hadn't happened. Or hadn't happened _yet_.

"House--are you still pining over Cuddy?"

House paused, and Wilson braced himself for a scathing joke and a quick exit.

"I was. I have been. But she's with Lucas. I'm pretty sure that the only reason I want her is that I can't have her. It'd probably be pretty awful if we actually got together, the control freak and the rebel. That never works. I need to move on."

Wilson nodded. "We're going to need a bigger apartment," he said tentatively.

"If you're ready to move on too, I hear Cuddy's been looking at a loft to move into. Some place smaller and with no yard. We could find out where and bid on it."

Wilson shook his head. "Trust me, we want a place with two bathrooms."

"You're serious about this?" House asked, and under the humor was a note of very frightened hope that Wilson had probably missed hearing a thousand times before. But he'd seen the future and he was determined not to allow his restless libido to tip over the dominoes this time.

"I'm serious," Wilson said, and yawned.

"Go back to sleep. Try to dream up a good condo for us to buy. And a flatscreen."

Wilson smiled, and murmured into his pillow, "You're going to love my decorator."


	9. If House Were Wiccan (rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a challenge

There's a spot not too far out of Princeton. It's just a quiet place where three roads meet and part again. Coyotes den in the state park here. It's a good place.

House parks his bike by the side of the road. He sits on the chilly grass and stretches out his legs. His backpack lies beside him. The moon is just starting to rise; wind tousles his hair. It's time.

House reaches into his bag and pulls out a bottle of beer and two ziploc bags. He opens the beer and pours half of it onto the grass.

"Here you go."

He watches the brew vanish into the ground. Then he drinks.

Since the last time he was here, he's treated four patients and forced two people to admit some unpleasant truths. He's also played a handful of tricks on his team, and he even did a little impromptu magic show for Wilson's peds ward.

House finishes the beer that's left in the bottle and puts the empty back in his pack. He opens one of the bags and takes out five pieces of peanut butter fudge.

"Got you both some fudge. You are going to really like this. Wilson made it yesterday for his department and whatever you might say about his blow drying habits, the man can cook."

House puts three pieces carefully beside the crossroad. The fourth he places further from the roads under an oak tree. The fifth he eats himself. He licks his fingers and lets the evening air dry them off.

In the distance he can hear barking. Something rustles behind him, probably the wind in the brush.

"Don't get impatient," House says. He moves back to his pack and opens the third bag. He made mini meatloaves in a muffin tin. He takes out a few now and crumples them in his hands, sprinkling the ground.

There's a sound. _Not_ the wind. There's something with body mass in the brush.

House stands, searching uneasily for the source of the noise but seeing nothing in the dimming light. Spooked, he tosses everything back into his bag and jumps onto the bike. He has one last meatloaf in his hand, and he can't leave like this. He pulls back his arm to throw--not his usual technique, but dammit something is out there--when he sees it.

There, just inside that thicket and not ten feet away, is the largest coyote House has ever heard of. It's staring straight at him.

House freezes. Is it habituated to humans? Some animals lose their fear of people and become aggressive. Is it rabid? Healthy wild animals don't act this way. House refuses to think that this is anything but a coincidence. This coyote has nothing to do with House's business. He's out in the wilderness right near a state park that's known to have a population of the animals. The smell of meat must be what drew it here.

Did it move? House thinks it's slunk closer.

"You want this?" House asks, holding out the meat. He tosses it to the animal.

It doesn't take the food, doesn't even blink.

This is definitely not normal. If he starts the bike the sound may startle the animal and cause it to attack. On the other hand, if he doesn't he's a sitting duck. After a moment House starts it up. He's ready to race out of there the second that thing moves.

It doesn't react to the sound at all. Is it deaf? What causes aberrant behavior and deafness in coyotes?

It surges to its feet and comes right at him, fast, and there's a moment of nothing but terror. His bladder lets go and then somehow the bike revs and peels away and House is flying down the road back to the safety of city lights with no memory of driving at all.

Over the buzz of the engine, he can hear the sound of coyotes yipping and howling behind him.

It sounds a lot like laughter.


	10. Help Me Redux (Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a challenge.

Note: I stole a line of dialogue from the episode.

House is aware of how absurd he is sitting on bathroom linoleum among a million shards of glass. He is filthy; he is bloody. He hurts inside and out. How is it that his ultimate powerlessness can still surprise him ?

He wanted so much to save her. He liked her. She'd been so frightened.

He's _sick_ of this, sick of terrible things happening that he can't do anything about no matter how hard he tries.

He's got the Vicodin in his hand. He's unsure whether to take two or three. Maybe four. He'd like to be numb for days.

The floor creaks. House looks up. "You going to leap across the room and grab them out of my hand?"

"You left your front door open," Foreman answers. "Who were you hoping would show up to rescue you? Cameron? Cuddy? You know Wilson's stuck in surgery for the next few hours so you can't have been expecting him."

"Wilson has a key," House says disparagingly, as if Foreman should know this. Whoever he hoped for, with her cherub pink scrubs and her angelic voice, the one he did not expect was Foreman, who has made no bones about not giving a damn about House's drama. "Why are you here?"

"I don't like you, House," Foreman says in a kind of anti-therapeutic preamble, "but lately it seemed like you've been trying to be a better person so I came by to check on you. I see you've decided to give all that up and go back to being a selfish, self-absorbed, immature idiot instead. Enjoy your OD."

Foreman moves for the door.

"What makes you think I'm going to OD?"

Foreman scoffs. "You're no different from any other addict. A lot of them stop using for a while and then relapse. They take what used to be their usual dose, but their bodies aren't accustomed to it anymore. A lot of them die. You may think you're a genius but when it comes to drugs you're just as dumb as any homeless crackhead."

House hadn't thought of that. He would have taken too much. He might have died. House feels his muscles loosen in shock, in recognition.

Foreman walks away. "See you tomorrow, House. Maybe."

House can hear the apartment door shut behind him.

After that there's no sound at all except the rapid beating of his heart.


	11. Apologia (rated PG)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson's thoughts early in season 6.

All summer Wilson is a zombie, walking and talking and smiling because he doesn't have enough sense to lie down when he's dead. He does his job. He treats his patients, runs his department, comforts his boss and his friend's fellows and even his former fellows when he can't avoid them all. He comforts his parents and his brothers too, in a bizarrely parallel double life. Sometimes someone will ask him how he's holding up, and he'll give a little laugh and talk about the humidity. If they press he'll mention how well either House or Danny is doing-whichever one matches the world he's in. Neither side knows about the other. Mostly no one asks. Why would they? Wilson's calm, impersonal strength isn't something he allows anyone to see through.

House calls. He is angry, pushy, and desperate. Wilson, as Nolan has asked, refuses to help. He has to hang up, then, because he knows that he will fold if House presses him. His cell phone shuts with a little snick. All of a sudden it's years ago and Wilson hears the small click-click of the phone as he hangs up on Danny. The same sick silence follows.

He's done it again. Wilson has a long history of betraying those he loves, and each time he decides to try harder, to be better, but all that happens is he's wound a little tighter inside and the pressure of being the perfect man he tries to be gets a little worse, and in the perverted, fucked-up way reality works that just makes his next betrayal a little closer. When Wilson is being brutally honest with himself, he knows this. He isn't often that honest. He's found potato chips a good cure for introspection.

House, Wilson reminds himself, is somewhere safe and has professionals looking after him. It's not like it was with his brother. Wilson's betrayal, this time, is the act of a friend. He assures himself of this repeatedly. House, he tells himself, will understand. He has to.

*******************************************************

House returns and takes over his couch. Wilson hides himself in cynicism. He knows better than anyone the power the drug has over House. He's done some research, and everyone says the same thing—addicts lie, addicts manipulate, addicts relapse. He's on his guard, and House is on his, and Wilson thinks they might never truly be friends again.

He tells Amber about it at night. "I don't know what to do," he tells her. "I don't know how to make him trust me. I don't know how to reach him."

"It's okay, baby," she tells him, wrapping herself around him as she always does when he needs comfort. He suspects that Amber—the real Amber—would have more than that to say, might even kick his ass right now for being so hung up on her. But he can't help it. He's lonely and he knows, in a bone-deep, gut level way he just _knows_ , that she was the one for him and he can't help mourning. 

Besides, she's the only one that he can talk to.

**********************************************

He listens to himself telling House to leave. He's already got plans to rope Cuddy in to House-sit, and if that doesn't work there are always Cameron and Chase, he could probably get them to do it. For all he knows the Taubs may have a spare bedroom. Then he realizes that it might be better for House to be alone than to be back in the minefield of toxic relationships that is PPTH.

Wilson has no idea what to do next. He pleads for House's understanding. The thought of House in jail terrifies him. The thought of House feeling alone right now, feeling that he can't count on Wilson when Wilson is practically amputating himself to keep him out of jail, terrifies him. It's the first real emotion he's had since he dropped House off at Mayfield.

**********************************************************

House makes it very clear he wants a bedroom. Wilson, knowing House has hallucinated Amber, has not wanted to put House in the den. He can't take her things out of there—that space is hers. He can't sleep in there with her himself, it's too much for him and he is worried it will be too much for House. But there is no other place.

House begins to fall apart almost immediately. He's frightened but he won't talk. The problem must have something to do with Amber, but Wilson doesn't know what, and he's starting to get scared. Their fight does little to relieve the tension and as he yells Wilson is painfully aware of the irony of House offering to be there for him. Both of them are fumbling to reach out, and yet neither of them can talk to the other.

On the way into work it hits him. Maybe there was a slice of truth in what House said. Maybe he did hear Wilson's quiet conversations and think he was hallucinating again. If so, if that's what happened, then him walking into the bedroom to investigate wasn't an invasive act of cruelty, it was House grabbing at a lifeline. And Wilson's anger and embarrassment are simply a product of the inevitable intimacy of living together, just like him accidentally walking in on House jerking off.

Wilson has an image of himself and House as a pair of parallel lines, arcing together across the years, forever bound but never touching. Both of them, he knows, are broken. Only House has gotten help and he hasn't, and for once House may be the healthier of their duo.

It's a frightening thought. Wilson focuses his mind on work instead. His first appointment today is a new patient. The man had dismissed his symptoms as back strain and fatigue until a few weeks ago, and by then it was already too late. Cancer has spread silently into his bones, runs now all through his body. He has no idea whether the patient will live.

Wilson tightens his tie. It's time to go.


	12. Short Fic Is Short (PG)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson's in an accident, and then things get weird. Written for the Supernatural Challenge over on Sick_Wilson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks: to Srsly_yes for her wonderful beta.

Wilson was the first and last person to use the new PET/CT machine. They'd thought he must be dead, but when House fought his way past the horrified spectators he found Wilson knocked out but alive beneath the rubble. Tests for radiation found his levels normal.

House scowled and said this wasn't possible, but it obviously _was_ , so the hospital released Wilson after several days of observation.

A few days later Wilson's back began to itch, and a few weeks after that he grew wings. They were huge muscular things that could bear Wilson’s weight as he soared.

House, earthbound, gripped his cane and watched.

Between them they created a harness that would hold House comfortably, his back flush against Wilson's chest. The added weight cut down on Wilson’s stamina, but nevertheless the two of them flew for hours, faces in the wind, riding the thermals.

House had always thought that riding a bike was the next best thing to flying. Now he knew it didn’t come close.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: House, M.D. belongs to David Shore, Universal Television, Heel and Toe Productions, and a lot of other people who are not me. I'm not making any money from this.
> 
> Not all of these are betaed, but many thanks to Srsly_yes for her hard work on several of them.


End file.
